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THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

A  COMEDY  IN  TWO  ACTS 
By  J.  M.  SYNGE 


JOHN  W.  LUCE  AND  COMPANY 

BOSTON    ::::::         :     :    :    1911 


[A//  rights  reserved^ 
igii 


r.i^'  fi 


PREFACE. 

The  drama  is  made  serious  —  in  the  French 

sense   of   the   word  —  not   by   the   degree    in 

which  it  is  taken  up  with  problems  that  are 

serious   in  themselves,   but  by  the   degree  in 

which  it  gives  Lhe  nourishment,  not  very  easy 

to  define,  on  which  our  imaginations  live.    We 

should  not  go  to  the  theatre  as  we  go  to  a 

chemist's,  or  a  dram-shop,  but  as  we  go  to 

a  dinner,   where  the   food  we  need  is  taken 

with    pleasure    and    excitement.       This    was 

nearly  always  so  in  Spain  and  England  and 

France  when  the  drama  was  at  its  richest  — 

the  infancy  and  decay  of  the  drama  tend  to 

be  didactic  —  but  in  these  days  the  playhouse 

is  too  often  stocked  with  the  drugs  of  many 


4-2237{) 


VI  PREFACE 

seedy  problems,  or  with  the  absinthe  or  ver- 
mouth of  the  last  musical  comedy. 

The  drama,  like  the  symphony,  does  not 
teach  or  prove  anything.  Analysts  with  their 
problems,  and  teachers  with  their  systems,  are 
soon  as  old-fashioned  as  the  pharmacopoeia  of 
Galen, — look  at  Ibsen  and  the  Germans  —  but 
the  best  plays  of  Ben  Jonson  and  Moliere  can 
no  more  go  out  of  fashion  than  the  black- 
berries on  the  hedges. 

Of  the  things  which  nourish  the  imagination 
humour  is  one  of  the  most  needful,  and  it  is 
dangerous  to  limit  or  destroy  it.  Baudelaire 
calls  laughter  the  greatest  sign  of  the  Satanic 
element  in  man;  and  where  a  country  loses 
its  humor,  as  some  towns  in  Ireland  are  doing, 
there  will  be  morbidity  of  mind,  as  Baude- 
laire's mind  was  morbid. 

In  the  greater  part  of  Ireland,  however, 
the  whole  people,  from  the  tinkers  to  the 
clergy,  have  still  a  life,  and  view  of  life,  that 


PREFACE  Vn 

are  rich  and  genial  and  humorous.  I  do  not 
think  that  these  country  people,  who  have  so 
much  humor  themselves,  will  mind  being 
laughed  at  without  malice,  as  the  people  in 
every  country  have  been  laughed  at  in  their 
own  comedies. 

J.   M.   S. 

December  2nd,  1907. 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 


PERSONS 

Michael  Byrne,  a  tinker. 
Mary  Byrne,  an  old  woman,  his  mother, 
Sarah  Casey,  a  young  tinker  woman. 
A  Priest. 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 


ACT  I. 


Scene:  A  Village  roadside  after  nightfall. 
A  fire  of  sticks  is  hiirning  near  the  ditch  a 
little  to  the  right.  Michael  is  zuorking  beside 
it.  In  the  background,  on  the  left,  a  sort  of 
tent  and  ragged  clothes  drying  on  the  hedge. 
On  the  right  a  chapel- gate. 

SARAH  CASEY  —  coming  in  on  rights 
eagerly. —  We'll  see  his  reverence  this  place, 
^Michael  Byrne,  and  he  passing  backward  to 
his  house  to-night. 

MICHAEL  —  grimly. —  That'll  be  a  sacred 
and  a  sainted  joy! 

SARAH  —  sharply. —  It'll  be  small  joy  for 
yourself  if  you  aren't  ready  with  my  wedding 
ring.  {She  goes  over  to  him.)  Is  it  near 
done  this  time,  or  what  way  is  it  at  all? 

MICHAEL.  A  poor  way  only,  Sarah 
Casey,  for  it's  the  divil's  job  making  a  ring, 
and  you'll  be  having  my  hands  destroyed  in 
a  short  while  the  way  I'll  not  be  able  to  make 
a  tin  can  at  all  maybe  at  the  dawn  of  day. 

SARAH  —  sitting  down  beside  him  and 
throwing  sticks  on  the  fire. —  If  it's  the  divil's 


;  c'jij.'.''  '  \ '.  ..Tiiii  Tinker's  Wedding 

job,  let  you  mind  it,  and  leave  your  speeches 
that  would  choke  a  fool. 

MICHAEL  —  slowly  and  glumly. —  And 
it's  you'll  go  talking  of  fools,  Sarah  Casey, 
when  no  man  did  ever  hear  a  lying  story  even 
of  your  like  unto  this  mortal  day.  You  to 
be  going  beside  me  a  great  while,  and  rearing 
a  lot  of  them,  and  then  to  be  setting  off  with 
your  talk  of  getting  married,  and  your  driv- 
ing me  to  it,  and  I  not  asking  it  at  all. 

\_Sarah  turns  her  hack  to  him  and  ar- 
ranges something  in  the  ditch. 

MICHAEL  —  angrily. —  Can't  you  speak 
a  word  when  I'm  asking  what  is  it  ails  you 
since  the  moon  did  change? 

SARAH  —  musingly. —  I'm  thinking  there 
isn't  anything  ails  me,  Michael  Byrne;  but 
the  spring-time  is  a  queer  time,  and  its  queer 
thoughts  maybe  I   do  think  at  whiles. 

MICHAEL.  It's  hard  set  you'd  be  to  think 
queerer  than  welcome,  Sarah  Casey;  but  what 
will  you  gain  dragging  me  to  the  priest  this 
night,  I'm  saying,  when  it's  new  thoughts 
you'll  be  thinking  at  the  dawn  of  day? 

SARAH  —  teasingly. —  It's  at  the  dawn  of 
day  I  do  be  thinking  I'd  have  a  right  to  be 
going  off  to  the  rich  tinker's  do  be  travelling 
from  Tibradden  to  the  Tara  Hill ;  for  it'd  be 
a  fine  life  to  be  driving  with  young  Jaunting 


The  Tinker's  Wedding  15 

Jim,  where  there  wouldn't  be  any  big  hills 
to  break  the  back  of  you,  with  walking  up  and 
walking  down. 

MICHAEL  —  with  dismay.— It's  the  like 
of  that  you  do  be  thinking ! 

SARAH.  The  like  of  that,  Michael  Byrne, 
when  there  is  a  bit  of  sun  in  it,  and  a  kind 
air,  and  a  great  smell  coming  from  the  thorn 
trees  is  above  your  head. 

MICHAEL  —  looks  at  her  for  a  moment 
with  horror^  and  then  hands  her  the  ring. — 
Will  that  fit  you  now? 

SARAH  —  trying  it  on. —  It's  making  it 
tight  you  are,  and  the  edges  sharp  on  the  tin. 

MICHAEL  —  looking  at  it  carefully. — 
It's  the  fat  of  your  own  finger,  Sarah  Casey; 
and  isn't  it  a  mad  thing  I'm  saying  again 
that  you'd  be  asking  marriage  of  me,  or  mak- 
ing a  talk  of  going  away  from  me,  and  you 
thriving  and  getting  your  good  health  by  the 
grace  of  the  Almighty  God? 

SARAH  —  giving  it  hack  to  him. —  Fix  it 
now,  and  it'll  do,  if  you're  wary  you  don't 
squeeze  it  again. 

MICHAEL  —  moodily,  zvorking  again. — 
It's  easy  saying  be  wary ;  there's  many  things 
easy  said,  Sarah  Casey,  you'd  wonder  a  fool 
even  would  be  saying  at  all.     (He  starts  vio- 


i6  The  Tinker's  Wedding 

lently.)  The  divil  mend  you,  Fm  scalded 
again ! 

SARAH  —  scornfully. —  If  you  are,  it's  a 
clumsy  man  you  are  this  night,  Michael  Byrne 
{raising  her  voice)  ;  and  let  you  make  haste 
now,  or  herself  will  be  coming  with  the  porter. 

MICHAEL  —  defiantly,  raising  his  voice. 
Let  me  make  haste?  I'll  be  making  haste 
maybe  to  hit  you  a  great  clout ;  for  I'm  think- 
ing it's  the  like  of  that  you  want.  I'm  think- 
ing on  the  day  I  got  you  above  at  Rathvanna, 
and  the  way  you  began  crying  out  and  we 
coming  down  off  the  hill,  crying  out  and  say- 
ing, "I'll  go  back  to  my  ma,"  and  I'm  thinking 
on  the  way  I  came  behind  you  that  time,  and 
hit  you  a  great  clout  in  the  lug,  and  how  quiet 
and  easy  it  was  you  came  along  with  me  from 
that  hour  to  this  present  day. 

SARAH  —  standing  up  and  throwing  all 
her  sticks  info  the  fire. —  And  a  big  fool  I  was 
too,  maybe;  but  we'll  be  seeing  Jaunting  Jim 
to-morrow  in  Ballinaclash,  and  he  after  get- 
ting a  great  price  for  his  white  foal  in  the 
horse-fair  of  Wicklow,  the  way  it'll  be  a  great 
sight  to  see  him  squandering  his  share  of  gold, 
and  he  with  a  grand  eye  for  a  fine  horse,  and 
a  grand  eye  for  a  woman. 

MICHAEL  —  working   again  with   impa- 


The  Tinker's  Wedding  17 

tience. —  The  divil  do  him  good  with  the  two 
of  them. 

SARAH  —  kicking  up  the  ashes  with  her 
foot. —  Ah,  he's  a  great  lad,  I'm  telhng  you, 
and  it'3  proud  and  happy  I'll  be  to  see  him, 
and  he  the  first  one  called  me  the  Beauty  of 
Ballinacree,  a  fine  name  for  a  woman. 

MICHAEL  —  with  contempt. —  It's  the 
like  of  that  name  they  do  be  putting  on  the 
horses  they  have  below  racing  in  Arklow.  It's 
easy  pleased  you  are,  Sarah  Casey,  easy 
pleased  with  a  big  word,  or  the  liar  speaks  it. 

SARAH.     Liar! 

MICHAEL.     Liar,  surely. 

SARAH  —  indignantly. —  Liar,  is  it  ? 
Didn't  you  ever  hear  tell  of  the  peelers  fol- 
lowed me  ten  miles  along  the  Glen  Malure, 
and  they  talking  love  to  me  in  the  dark  night, 
or  of  the  children  you'll  meet  coming  from 
school  and  they  saying  one  to  the  other,  "  It's 
this  day  we  seen  Sarah  Casey,  the  Beauty  of 
Ballinacree,  a  great  sight  surely." 

MICHAEL.     God  help  the  lot  of  them! 

SARAH.  It's  yourself  you'll  be  calling 
God  to  help,  in  two  weeks  or  three,  when 
you'll  be  waking  up  in  the  dark  night  and 
thinking  you  see  me  coming  with  the  sun  on 
me,  and  I  driving  a  high  cart  with  Jaunting 


i8  The  Tinker's  Wedding 

Jim  going  behind.  It's  lonesome  and  cold 
you'll  be  feeling  the  ditch  where  you'll  be 
lying  down  that  night,  I'm  telling  you,  and 
you  hearing  the  old  woman  making  a  great 
noise  in  her  sleep,  and  the  bats  squeaking  in 
the  trees. 

MICHAEL.  Whist.  I  hear  some  one 
coming  the  road. 

SARAH  —  looking  out  right. —  It's  some 
one  coming  forward  from  the  doctor's  door. 

MICHAEL.  It's  often  his  reverence  does 
be  in  there  playing  cards,  or  drinking  a  sup,  or 
singing  songs,  until  the  dawn  of  day. 

SARAH.  It's  a  big  boast  of  a  man  with  a 
long  step  on  him  and  a  trumpeting  voice. 
It's  his  reverence  surely;  and  if  you  have  the 
ring  done,  it's  a  great  bargain  we'll  make  now 
and  he  after  drinking  his  glass. 

MICHAEL  —  going  to  her  and  giving  her 
the  ring. —  There's  your  ring,  Sarah  Casey; 
but  I'm  thinking  he'll  walk  by  and  not  stop  to 
speak  with  the  like  of  us  at  all. 

SARAH  —  tidying  herself,  in  great  excite- 
ment.—  Let  you  be  sitting  here  and  keeping 
a  great  blaze,  the  way  he  can  look  on  my  face ; 
and  let  you  seem  to  be  working,  for  it's  great 
love  the  like  of  him  have  to  talk  of  work. 

MICHAEL  —  moodily,   sitting   down  and 


The  Tinker's  Wedding  19 

beginning  to  work  at  a  tin  can. —  Great  love 
surely. 

SARAH  —  eagerly. — Make  a  great  blaze 
now,  Michael  Byrne. 

[The  priest  comes  in  on  right;  she  comes 
forward  in  front  of  him. 
SARAH  —  in    a    very    plausible    voice. — 
Good  evening,  your  reverence.     It's  a  grand 
fine  night,  by  the  grace  of  God. 

PRIEST.  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  us! 
What  kind  of  a  living  woman  is  it  that  you 
are  at  all? 

SARAH.  It's  Sarah  Casey  I  am ,  your 
reverence,  the  Beauty  of  Ballinacree,  and  it's 
Michael  Byrne  is  below  in  the  ditch. 

PRIEST.  A  holy  pair,  surely!  Let  you 
get  out  of  my  way.     [He  tries  to  pass  by. 

SARAH  —  keeping  in  front  of  him. —  We 
are  wanting  a  little  word  with  your  reverence. 
PRIEST.     I   haven't   a  halfpenny   at   all. 
Leave  the  road  I'm  saying. 

SARAH.  It  isn't  a  halfpenny  we're  ask- 
ing, holy  father ;  but  we  were  thinking  maybe 
we'd  have  a  right  to  be  getting  married;  and 
we  were  thinking  it's  yourself  would  marry 
us  for  not  a  halfpenny  at  all;  for  you're  a 
kind  man,  your  reverence,  a  kind  man  with 
the  poor. 


20  The  Tinker's  Wedding 

PRIEST  —  with  astonishment. —  Is  it  mar- 
ry you /for  nothing  at  all? 

SARAH.  It  is,  your  reverence;  and  we 
were  thinking  maybe  you'd  give  us  a  little 
small  bit  of  silver  to  pay  for  the  ring. 

PRIEST  —  loudly. —  Let  you  hold  your 
tongue;  let  you  be  quiet,  Sarah  Casey.  I've 
no  silver  at  all  for  the  like  of  you;  and  if  you 
want  to  be  married,  let  you  pay  your  pound. 
I'd  do  it  for  a  pound  only,  and  that's  making 
it  a  sight  cheaper  than  I'd  make  it  for  one 
of  my  own  pairs  is  living  here  in  the  place. 

SARAH.  Where  would  the  like  of  us  get 
a  pound,  your  reverence? 

PRIEST.  Wouldn't  you  easy  get  it  with 
your  selling  asses,  and  making  cans,  and  your 
stealing  east  and  west  in  Wicklow  and  Wex- 
ford and  the  county  Meath?  (He  tries  to 
pass  her.)  Let  you  leave  the  road,  and  not 
be  plaguing  me  more. 

SARAH  —  pleadingly,  taking  money  from 
her  pocket. —  Wouldn't  you  have  a  little  mercy 
on  us,  your  reverence?  (Holding  out  money.) 
Wouldn't  you  marry  us  for  a  half  a  sovereign, 
and  it  a  nice  shiny  one  with  a  view  on  it  of 
the  living  king's  mamma? 

PRIEST.  If  it's  ten  shillings  you  have, 
let  you  get  ten  more  the  same  way,  and  I'll 
marry  you  then. 


The  Tinker's  Wedding  21 

SARAH  —  whining. —  It's  two  years  we 
are  getting  that  bit,  your  reverence,  with  our 
pence  and  our  halfpence  and  an  odd  three- 
penny bit;  and  if  you  don't  marry  us  now, 
himself  and  the  old  woman,  who  has  a  great 
drouth,  will  be  drinking  it  to-morrow  in  the 
fair  (she  puts  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  half  sob- 
bing), and  then  I  won't  be  married  any  time, 
and  I'll  be  saying  till  I'm  an  old  woman: 
"  It's  a  cruel  and  a  wricked  thing  to  be  bred 
poor." 

PRIEST  —  turning  up  towards  the  fire. — 
Let  you  not  be  crying,  Sarah  Casey.  It's  a 
queer  woman  you  are  to  be  crying  at  the  like 
of  that,  and  you  your  whole  life  walking  the 
roads. 

SARAH  —  sobbing. —  It's  two  years  we 
are  getting  the  gold,  your  reverence,  and  now 
you  won't  marry  us  for  that  bit,  and  we 
hard-working  poor  people  do  be  making  cans 
in  the  dark  night,  and  blinding  our  eyes  with 
the  black  smoke  from  the  bits  of  twigs  we 
do  be  burning. 

[An  old  woman  is  heard  singing  tipsily 
on  the  left.  ''  ' 

FRIEST  — looking  at  the  can  Michael  is 
making. —  When  will  you  have  that  can  done,     ^ 
Michael  Byrne? 

MICHAEL.     In  a  short  space  only,  your 


22  The  Tinker's  Wedding 

reverence,  for  I'm  putting  the  last  dab  of 
solder  on  the  rim. 

PRIEST.  Let  you  get  a  crown  along  with 
the  ten  shillings  and  the  gallon  can,  Sarah 
Casey,  and  I  will  wed  you  so. 

MARY  —  suddenly  shouting  behind,  tip- 
sily. —  Larry  was  a  fine  lad,  I'm  saying;  Larry 
was  a  fine  lad,   Sarah  Casey 

MICHAEL.  Whist,  now,  the  two  of  you. 
There's  my  mother  coming,  and  she'd  have  us 
destroyed  if  she  heard  the  like  of  that  talk 
the  time  she's  been  drinking  her  fill. 

MARY  —  comes  in  singing  — 

And  when  we  asked  him  what  way  he'd  die, 
And  he  hanging  unrepented, 

"  Begob,"  says  Larry,  "  that's  all  in  my  eye, 
By  the  clergy  first  invented." 

SARAH.  Give  me  the  jug  now,  or  you'll 
have  it  spilt  in  the  ditch. 

MARY  —  holding  the  jug  with  both  her 
hands,  in  a  stilted  voice. —  Let  you  leave  me 
easy,  Sarah  Casey.  I  won't  spill  it,  I'm  saying. 
God  help  you;  are  you  thinking  it's  frothing 
full  to  the  brim  it  is  at  this  hour  of  the  night, 
and  I  after  carrying  it  in  my  two  hands  a  long 
step  from  Jemmy  Neill's? 

MICHAEL  —  anxiously. —  Is  there  a  sup 
left  at  all? 


The  Tinker's  Wedding  23 

SARAH  —  looking  into  the  jug. —  A  little 
small  sup  only  I'm  thinking. 

MARY  —  sees  the  priest,  and  holds  out  jug 
towards  him. —  God  save  your  reverence.  I'm 
after  bringing  dov^n  a  smart  drop;  and  let 
you  drink  it  up  now,  for  it's  a  middling 
drouthy  man  you  are  at  all  times,  God  forgiv^-^ 
you,  and  this  night  is  cruel  dry.  / 

\_She  tries  to  go   towards  him.     Sarah 
holds  her  hack. 

PRIEST  —  waving  her  away. —  Let  you 
not  be  falling  to  the  flames.  Keep  off,  I'm 
saying. 

MARY  —  persuasively. —  Let  you  not  be 
shy  of  us,  your  reverence.  Aren't  we  all 
sinners,  God  help  us!  Drink  a  sup  now,  I'm 
telling  you ;  and  we  won't  let  on  a  word  about 
it  till  the  Judgment  Day. 

[She  takes  up  a  tin  mug,  pours  some 
porter  into  it,  and  gives  it  to  him. 

MARY  —  singing,  and  holding  the  jug  in 
her  hand  — 

A  lonesome  ditch  in  Ballygan 

The  day  you're  beating  a  tenpenny  can; 

A  lonesome  bank  in  Ballyduff 

The  time  .  .  .  {She  breaks  off. 

It's  a  bad,  wicked  song,  Sarah  Casey;  and 
let  you  put  me  down  now  in  the  ditch,  and  I 
won't  sing  it  till  himself  will  be  gone;  for 


24  The  Tinker's  Wedding 

it's  bad  enough  he  is,  I'm  thinking,  without 
ourselves  making  him  worse. 

SARAH  —  putting  her  down,  to  the  priest, 
half  laughing. —  Don't  mind  her  at  all,  your 
reverence.  She's  no  shame  the  time  she's  a 
drop  taken;  and  if  it  was  the  Holy  Father 
from  Rome  was  in  it,  she'd  give  him  a  little 
sup  out  of  her  mug,  and  say  the  same  as  she'd 
say  to  yourself. 

MARY  —  to  the  priest. —  Let  you  drink  it 
up,  holy  father.  Let  you  drink  it  up,  I'm  say- 
ing, and  not  be  letting  on  you  wouldn't  do 
the  like  of  it,  and  you  with  a  stack  of  pint 
bottles  above,  reaching  the  sky. 

PRIEST  —  with  resignation. —  Well,  here's 
to  your  good  health,  and  God  forgive  us  all. 
\^He  drinks. 

MARY.  That's  right  now,  your  reverence, 
and  the  blessing  of  God  be  on  you.  Isn't  it 
a  grand  thing  to  see  you  sitting  down,  with 
no  pride  in  you,  and  drinking  a  sup  with  the 
like  of  us,  and  we  the  poorest,  wretched, 
starving  creatures  you'd  see  any  place  on  the 
earth? 

PRIEST.  If  it's  starving  you  are  itself, 
I'm  thinking  it's  well  for  the  like  of  you  that 
do  be  drinking  when  there's  drouth  on  you, 
and  lying  down  to  sleep  when  your  legs  are 
stiff.      {He  sighs  gloomily.)      What   would 


The  Tinker's  Wedding  25 

you  do  if  it  was  the  like  of  myself  you  were, 
saying  Mass  with  your  mouth  dry,  and  run- 
ning east  and  west  for  a  sick  call  maybe,  and 
hearing  the  rural  people  again  and  they  saying 
their  sins? 

MARY  —  with  compassion. —  It's  destroy- 
ed you  must  be  hearing  the  sins  of  the  rural 
people  on  a  fine  spring. 

PRIEST  —  with  despondency. —  It's  a  hard 
life,  I'm  telling  you,  a  hard  life,  Mary  Byrne; 
and  there's  the  bishop  coming  in  the  morning, 
and  he  an  old  man,  would  have  you  destroyed 
if  he  seen  a  thing  at  all. 

MARY  —  with  great  sympathy.  —  It'd 
break  my  heart  to  hear  you  talking  and  sigh- 
ing the  like  of  that,  your  reverence.  {She 
pats  him  on  the  knee.)  Let  you  rouse  up, 
now,  if  it's  a  poor,  single  man  you  are  itself, 
and  I'll  be  singing  you  songs  unto  the  dawn 
of  day. 

PRIEST  —  interrupting  her. —  What  is  it 
I  want  with  your  songs  when  it'd  be  better 
for  the  like  of  you,  that'll  soon  die,  to  be  down 
on  your  two  knees  saying  prayers  to  the 
Almighty  God? 

MARY.  If  it's  prayers  I  want,  you'd  have 
a  right  to  say  one  yourself,  holy  father;  for 
we  don't  have  them  at  all,  and  I've  heard  tell 
a  power  of  times  it's  that  you're  for.     Say 


y 


26  The  Tinker's  Wedding 

one  now,  your  reverence,  for  I've  heard  a 
power  of  queer  things  and  I  walking  the 
world,  but  there's  one  thing  I  never  heard  any 
dine,  and  that's  a  real  priest  saying  a  prayer. 
'  PRIEST.     The  Lord  protect  us! 

MARY.  It's  no  lie,  holy  father.  I  often 
heard  the  rural  people  making  a  queer  noise 
and  they  going  to  rest;  but  who'd  mind  the 
like  of  them?  And  I'm  thinking  it  should  be 
great  game  to  hear  a  scholar,  the  like  of  you, 
speaking  Latin  to  the  saints  above. 

PRIEST  —  scandalized. —  Stop  your  talk- 
ing, Mary  Byrne;  you're  an  old  flagrant 
heathen,  and  I'll  stay  no  more  with  the  lot  of 
you.  \He  rises. 

MARY  —  catching  hold  of  him. —  Stop  till 
you  say  a  prayer,  your  reverence;  stop  till  you 
say  a  little  prayer,  I'm  telling  you,  and  I'll 
give  you  my  blessing  and  the  last  sup  from  the 
jug. 

PRIEST  —  breaking  away. —  Leave  me  go, 
Mary  Byrne;  for  I  have  never  met  your  like 
for  hard  abominations  the  score  and  two  years 
I'm  living  in  the  place. 

MARY  —  innocently. — Is  that  the  truth? 

PRIEST. —  It  is,  then,  and  God  have  mercy 
on  your  soul. 

[The  priest  goes  towards  the  left^  and 

Sarah  follows  him. 


The  Tinker's  Wedding  2y 

SARAH  —  in  a  lozv  voice. —  And  what 
time  will  you  do  the  thing  Fm  asking,  holy 
father?  for  I'm  thinking  you'll  do  it  surely, 
and  not  have  me  growing  into  an  old,  wicked 
heathen  like  herself. 

MARY  —  calling  out  shrilly. —  Let  you  be 
walking  back  here,  Sarah  Casey,  and  not  be 
talking  whisper-talk  with  the  like  of  him  in  the 
face  of  the  Almighty  God. 

SARAH  —  to  the  priest. —  Do  you  hear  her 
now,  your  reverence?  Isn't  it  true,  surely, 
she's  an  old,  flagrant  heathen,  would  destroy 
the  world? 

PRIEST  —  to  Sarah,  moving  off. —  Well, 
I'll  be  coming  dow^n  early  to  the  chapel,  and  let 
you  come  to  me  a  while  after  you  see  me  pas- 
sing, and  bring  the  bit  of  gold  along  with  you, 
and  the  tin  can.  I'll  marry  you  for  them  two, 
though  it's  a  pitiful  small  sum ;  for  I  wouldn't 
be  easy  in  my  soul  if  I  left  you  growing  into 
an  old,  wicked  heathen  the  like  of  her. 

SARAH  —  following  him  out. —  The  bles- 
sing of  the  Almighty  God  be  on  you,  holy 
father,  and  that  He  may  reward  and  watch 
you  from  this  present  day. 

MARY  —  nudging  Michael. —  Did  you  see 
that,  Michael  Byrne?  Didn't  you  hear  me 
telling  you  she's  flighty  a  while  back  since  the 
change  of  the  moon?     With  her  fussing  for 


28  The  Tinker's  Wedding 

marriage,  and  she  making  whisper-talk  with 
one  man  or  another  man  along  by  the  road. 

MICHAEL. —  Whist  now,  or  she'll  knock 
the  head  of  you  the  time  she  comes  back. 

MARY. —  Ah,  it's  a  bad,  wicked  way  the 
world  is  this  night,  if  there's  a  fine  air  in  it 
itself.  You'd  never  have  seen  me,  and  I  a 
young  woman,  making  whisper-talk  with  the 
like  of  him,  and  he  the  fearfullest  old  fellow 
you'd  see  any  place  walking  the  world. 

[Sarah  comes  back  quickly. 

MARY  —  calling  out  to  her. —  What  is  it 
you're  after  whispering  above  with  himself  ? 

SARAH  —  exultingly. —  Lie  down,  and 
leave  us  in  peace.    She  whispers  with  Michael. 

MARY  —  poking  out  her  pipe  with  a  straw, 
sings  — 

She'd  whisper  with  one,  and  she'd  whisper 

with  two 

She  breaks  off  coughing. —  My  singing  voice 
is  gone  for  this  night,  Sarah  Casey.  (She 
lights  her  pipe.)  But  if  it's  flighty  you  are 
itself,  you're  a  grand  handsome  woman,  the 
glory  of  tinkers,  the  pride  of  Wicklow,  the 
Beauty  of  Ballinacree.  I  wouldn't  have  you 
lying  down  and  you  lonesome  to  sleep  this 
night  in  a  dark  ditch  when  the  spring  is  coming 
in  the  trees;  so  let  you  sit  down  there  by  the 
big  bough,  and  I'll  be  telling  you  the  finest 


The  Tinker's  Wedding  29 

story  you'd  hear  any  place  from  Dundalk  to 
Ballinacree,  with  great  queens  in  it,  making 
themselves  matches  from  the  start  to  the  end, 
and  they  with  shiny  silks  on  them  the  length 
of  the  day,  and  white  shifts  for  the  night. 

MICHAEL  —  standing  up  with  the  tin  can 
in  his  hand. —  Let  you  go  asleep,  and  not  have 
us  destroyed. 

MARY  —  lying  back  sleepily. —  Don't  mind 
him,  Sarah  Casey.  Sit  down  now,  and  I'll  be 
telling  you  a  story  would  be  fit  to  tell  a  woman 
the  like  of  you  in  the  springtime  of  the  year. 

SARAH  —  taking  the  can  from  Michael, 
and  tying  it  up  in  a  piece  of  sacking. —  That'll 
not  be  rusting  now  in  the  dews  of  night.  I'll 
put  it  up  in  the  ditch  the  way  it  will  be  handy 
in  the  morning;  and  now  we've  that  done, 
Michael  Byrne,  I'll  go  along  with  you  and 
welcome  for  Tim  Flaherty's  hens. 

[She  puts  the  can  in  the  ditch. 

MARY  —  sleepily. —  I've  a  grand  story  of 
the  great  queens  of  Ireland  with  white  necks 
on  them  the  like  of  Sarah  Casey,  and  fine 
arms  would  hit  you  a  slap  the  way  Sarah 
Casey  would  hit  you. 

SARAH  —  beckoning  on  the  left. —  Come 
along  now,  Michael,  vdiile  she's  falling  asleep. 


30  The  Tinker's  Wedding 

[He  goes  towards  left.  Mary  sees  that 
they  are  going,  starts  up  suddenly,  and 
turns  over  on  her  hands  and  knees. 

MARY  —  piteously. —  Where  is  it  you're 
going?  Let  you  walk  back  here,  and  not  be 
leaving  me  lonesome  when  the  night  is  fine. 

SARAH.  Don't  be  waking  the  world  with 
your  talk  when  we're  going  up  through  the 
back  wood  to  get  two  of  Tim  Flaherty's  hens 
are  roosting  in  the  ash-tree  above  at  the  well. 

MARY.  And  it's  leaving  me  lone  you  are  ? 
Come  back  here,  Sarah  Casey.  Come  back 
here,  I'm  saying;  or  if  it's  off  you  must  go, 
leave  me  the  two  little  coppers  you  have,  the 
way  I  can  walk  up  in  a  short  while,  and  get 
another  pint  for  my  sleep. 

SARAH.  It's  too  much  you  have  taken. 
Let  you  stretch  yourself  out  and  take  a  long 
sleep ;  for  isn't  that  the  best  thing  any  woman 
can  do,  and  she  an  old  drinking  heathen  like 
yourself. 

[She  and  Michael  go  out  left. 

MARY  —  standing  up  slowly. —  It's  gone 
they  are,  and  I  with  my  feet  that  weak  under 
me  you'd  knock  me  down  with  a  rush,  and 
my  head  with  a  noise  in  it  the  like  of  what 


The  Tinker's  Wedding  31 

you'd  hear  in  a  stream  and  it  running  between 
two  rocks  and  rain  falling.  (She  goes  over  to 
the  ditch  wJiere  the  can  is  tied  in  sacking,  and 
takes  it  down.)  What  good  am  I  this  night, 
God  help  me?  What  good  are  the  grand 
stories  I  have  when  it's  few  would  listen  to 
an  old  woman,  few  but  a  girl  maybe  would 
be  in  great  fear  the  time  her  hour  was  come, 
or  a  little  child  wouldn't  be  sleeping  with  the 
hunger  on  a  cold  night?  (She  takes  the  can 
from  the  sacking  and  fits  in  three  empty  bottles 
and  straw  in  its  place,  and  ties  them  up.) 
Maybe  the  two  of  them  have  a  good  right  to 
be  walking  out  the  little  short  while  they'd  be 
young;  but  if  they  have  itself,  they'll  not 
keep  Mary  Byrne  from  her  full  pint  when 
the  night's  fine,  and  there's  a  dry  moon  in  the 
sky.  (She  takes  up  the  can,  and  puts  the 
package  hack  in  the  ditch.)  Jemmy  Neill's  a 
decent  lad;  and  he'll  give  me  a  good  drop  for 
the  can;  and  maybe  if  I  keep  near  the  peelers 
to-morrow  for  the  first  bit  of  the  fair,  herself 
won't  strike  me  at  all;  and  if  she  does  itself, 
what's  a  little  stroke  on  your  head  beside 
sitting  lonesome  on  a  fine  night,  hearing  the 


32  The  Tinker^s  Wedding 

dogs  barking,  and  the  bats  squeaking,  and  you 
saying  over,  it's  a  short  while  only  till  you  die. 
[She  goes  out  singing  ^*  The  night  before 
Larry  was  stretched.*^ 


CURTAIN 


The  Tinker's  Wedding  33 

ACT  11. 

Scene:  The  same.  Early  morning.  Sarah 
is  washing  her  face  in  an  old  bucket;  then 
plaits  her  hair.  Michael  is  tidying  himself 
also.    Mary  Byrne  is  asleep  against  the  ditch. 

SARAH  —  to  Michael,  with  pleased  excite- 
ment.— Go  over,  now,  to  the  bundle  beyond, 
and  you'll  find  a  kind  of  a  red  handkerchief 
to  put  upon  your  neck,  and  a  green  one  for 
myself. 

MICHAEL  —  getting  them.—  You're  after 
spending  more  money  on  the  like  of  them. 
Well,  it's  a  power  we're  losing  this  time,  and 
we  not  gaining  a  thing  at  all.  {With  the 
handkerchief.)     Is  it  them  two? 

SARAH.  It  is,  Michael.  {She  takes  one 
of  them. )  Let  you  tackle  that  one  round  under 
your  chin;  and  let  you  not  forget  to  take  your 
hat  from  your  head  when  we  go  up  into  the 
church.  I  asked-  Biddy  Flynn  below,  that's 
after  marrying  her  second  man,  and  she  told 
me  it's  the  like  of  that  they  do. 

[^Mary   yawns,    and    turns    over   in   her 
sleep. 

SARAH  —  with  anxiety. —  There  she  is 
waking  up  on  us,  and  I  thinking  we'd  have  the 
job  done  before  she'd  know  of  it  at  all. 


34  The  Tinker's  Wedding 

MICHAEL.  She'll  be  crying  out  now,  and 
making  game  of  us,  and  saying  it's  fools  we 
are  surely. 

SARAH.  I'll  send  her  to  sleep  again,  or 
get  her  out  of  it  one  way  or  another;  for  it'd 
be  a  bad  case  to  have  a  divil's  scholar  the  like 
of  her  turning  the  priest  against  us  maybe 
with  her  godless  talk. 

MARY  —  waking  up,  and  looking  at  them 
with  curiosity,  blandly. —  That's  fine  things 
you  have  on  you,  Sarah  Casey ;  and  it's  a  great 
stir  you're  making  this  day,  washing  your 
face.  I'm  that  used  to  the  hammer,  I  wouldn't 
hear  it  at  all,  but  washing  is  a  rare  thing,  and 
you're  after  waking  me  up,  and  I  having  a 
great  sleep  in  the  sun. 

[She  looks  around  cautiously  at  the 
bundle  in  which  she  has  hidden  the 
bottles. 

SARAH  —  coaxingly. —  Let  you  stretch 
out  again  for  a  sleep,  Mary  Byrne,  for  it'll 
be  a  middling  time  yet  before  we  go  to  the 
fair. 

MARY  —  with  suspicion. —  That's  a  sweet 
tongue  you  have,  Sarah  Casey;  but  if  sleep's 
a  grand  thing,  it's  a  grand  thing  to  be  waking 
up  a  day  the  like  of  this,  when  there's  a  warm 
sun  in  it,  and  a  kind  air,  and  you'll  hear  the 


The  Tinker's  Wedding  35 

cuckoos  singing  and  crying  out  on  the  top  of 
the  hills. 

SARAH.  If  it's  that  gay  you  are,  you'd 
have  a  right  to  walk  down  and  see  would  you 
get  a  few  halfpence  from  the  rich  men  do  be 
driving  early  to  the  fair. 

MARY.  When  rich  men  do  be  driving 
early,  it's  queer  tempers  they  have,  the  Lord 
forgive  them ;  the  way  it's  little  but  bad  words 
and  sw.earing  out  you'd  get  from  them  all. 

SARAH  —  losing  her  temper  and  breaking 
out  fiercely. —  Then  if  you'll  neither  beg  nor 
sleep,  let  you  walk  off  from  this  place  where 
you're  not  wanted,  and  not  have  us  waiting 
for  you  maybe  at  the  turn  of  day. 

MARY  —  rather  uneasy,  turning  to  Mi- 
chael.—  God  help  our  spirits,  Michael ;  there 
she  is  again  rousing  cranky  from  the  break 
of  dawn.  Oh!  isn't  she  a  terror  since  the 
moon  did  change  {she  gets  up  slowly)  ?  And 
I'd  best  be  going  forward  to  sell  the  gallon 
can. 

[She  goes  over  and  takes  up  the  bundle. 

SARAH  —  crying  out  angrily. —  Leave 
that  down,  Mary  Byrne.  Oh!  aren't  you  the 
scorn  of  women  to  think  that  you'd  have  that 
drouth  and  roguery  on  you  that  you'd  go 
drinking  the  can  and  the  dew  not  dried  from 
the  grass? 


36  The  Tinker's  Wedding 

MARY  —  in  a  feigned  tone  of  pacification, 
with  the  bundle  still  in  her  hand. —  It's  not  a 
drouth  but  a  heartburn  I  have  this  day,  Sarah 
Casey,  so  I'm  going  down  to  cool  my  gullet 
at  the  blessed  well ;  and  I'll  sell  the  can  to  the 
parson's  daughter  below,  a  harmless  poor 
creature  would  fill  your  hand  with  shillings 
for  a  brace  of  lies. 

SARAH.  Leave  down  the  tin  can,  Mary 
Byrne,  for  I  hear  the  drouth  upon  your  tongue 
to-day. 

MARY.  There's  not  a  drink-house  from 
this  place  to  the  fair,  Sarah  Casey;  the  way 
you'll  find  me  below  with  the  full  price,  and 
not  a  farthing  gone. 

[She  turns  to  go  off  left. 

SARAH  —  jumping  up,  and  picking  up  the 
hammer  threateningly. —  Put  down  that  can, 
I'm  saying. 

MARY  —  looking  at  her  for  a  moment  in 
terror,  and  putting  down  the  bundle  in  the 
ditch. —  Is  it  raving  mad  you're  going,  Sarah 
Casey,  and  you  the  pride  of  women  to  destroy 
the  world? 

SARAH  —  going  up  to  her,  and  giving  her 
a  push  off  left. —  I'll  show  you  if  it's  raving 
mad  I  am.  Go  on  from  this  place,  I'm  saying, 
and  be  wary  now. 

MARY  —  turning   back   after  her. —  If   I 


The  Tinker's  Wedding  37 

go,  I'll  be  telling  old  and  young  you're  a 
weathered  heathen  savage,  Sarah  Casey,  the 
one  did  put  down  a  head  of  the  parson's  cab- 
bage to  boil  in  the  pot  with  your  clothes^//f^ 
priest  comes  in  behind  her,  on  the  left,  and 
listens),  and  quenched  the  flaming  candles  on 
the  throne  of  God  the  time  your  shadow  fell 
within  the  pillars  of  the  chapel  door. 

\_Sarah   turns   on   her,    and  she  springs 

round   nearly   into    the   Priest's   arms. 

When  she  sees  him,  she  claps  her  shawl 

over  her  month,  and  goes  up  towards 

the  ditch,  laughing  to  herself. 

PRIEST  —  going  to  Sarah,   half  terrified 

at  the  language   that  he  has  heard. —  Well, 

aren't  you  a  fearful  lot?    I'm  thinking  it's  only 

humbug  you  were  making  at  the  fall  of  night, 

and  you  won't  need  me  at  all. 

SARAH  —  with  anger  still  in  her  voice. — 
Humbug  is  it !  would  you  be  turning  back  upon 
your  spoken  promise  in  the  face  of  God? 

PRIEST  —  dubiously.— Vm  thinking  you 
were  never  christened,  Sarah  Casey;  and  it 
would  be  a  queer  job  to  go  dealing  Christian 
sacraments  unto  the  like  of  you.  {Persuasive- 
ly feeling  in  his  pocket.)  So  it  would  be  best, 
maybe,  I'd  give  you  i.  shilling  for  to  drink 
my  health,  and  let  you  walk  on,  and  not 
trouble  me  at  all 


38  The  Tinker's  Wedding 

SARAH.  That's  your  talking,  is  it?  If 
you  don't  stand  to  your  spoken  word,  holy 
father,  I'll  make  my  own  complaint  to  the 
mitred  bishop  in  the  face  of  all. 

PRIEST.     You'd  do  that! 

SARAH.  I  would  surely,  holy  father,  if 
I  walked  to  the  city  of  Dublin  with  blood  and 
blisters  on  my  naked  feet. 

PRIEST  —  uneasily  scratching  his  ear. — 
I  wish  this  day  was  done,  Sarah  Casey;  for 
I'm  thinking  it's  a  risky  thing  getting  mixed 
up  in  any  matters  with  the  like  of  you. 

SARAH.  Be  hast"  then,  and  you'll  have 
us  done  with  before  you'd  think  at  all. 

PRIEST  —  giving  in. —  Well,  maybe  it's 
right  you  are,  and  let  you  come  up  to  the  chapel 
when  you  see  me  looking  from  the  door. 

[He  goes  up  into  the  chapel, 

SARAH  —  calling  after  him. —  We  will, 
and  God  preserve  you,  holy  father. 

MARY  —  coming  down  to  them,  speaking 
with  amazement  and  consternation,  but  with- 
out anger. —  Going  to  the  chapel !  It's  at  mar- 
riage you're  fooling  again,  maybe?  (Sarah 
turns  her  back  on  her.)  It  was  for  that  you 
were  washing  your  face,  and  you  after  sending 
me  for  porter  at  the  fall  of  night  the  way  I'd 
drink  a  good  half   from  the  jug?     (Going 


The  Tinker's  Wedding  39 

round  in  front  of  Sarah.)  Is  it  at  marriage 
you're   fooling  again? 

SARAH  —  truimphantly. —  It  is,  Mary 
Byrne.  I'll  be  married  now  in  a  short  while; 
and  from  this  day  there  will  no  one  have  a 
right  to  call  me  a  dirty  name  and  I  selling  cans 
in  Wicklow  or  Wexford  or  the  city  of  Dublin 
itself. 

MARY  —  turning  to  Michael —  And  it's 
yourself  is  wedding  her,  Michael  Byrne? 

MICHAEL  —  gloomily. —  It  is,  God  spare 
us. 

MARY  —  looks  at  Sarah  for  a  moment, 
and  then  hursts  out  into  a  laugh  of  derision. — 
Well,  she's  a  tight,  hardy  girl,  and  it's  no  lie; 
but  I  never  knew  till  this  day  it  was  a  black 
born  fool  I  had  for  a  son.  You'll  breed  asses, 
IVe  heard  them  say,  and  poaching  dogs,  and 
horses'd  go  licking  the  wind,  but  it's  a  hard 
thing,  God  help  me,  to  breed  sense  in  a  son. 

MICHAEL  —  gloomily. —  If  I  didn't  mar- 
ry her,  she'd  be  walking  off  to  Jaunting  Jim 
maybe  at  the  fall  of  night;  and  it's  well  your- 
self knows  there  isn't  the  like  of  her  for  getting 
money  and  selling  songs  to  the  men. 

MARY.  And  you're  thinking  it's  paying 
gold  to  his  reverence  would  make  a  woman 
stop  when  she's  a  mind  to  go  ? 

SARAH  —  angrily. —  Let  you  not  be  de- 


40  The  Tinker's  Wedding 

stroying  us  with  your  talk  when  I've  as  good 
a  right  to  a  decent  marriage  as  any  speckled 
female  does  be  sleeping  in  the  black  hovels 
above,  would  choke  a  mule. 

MARY  —  soothingly. —  It's  as  good  a  right 
you  have  surely,  Sarah  Casey,  but  what  good 
will  it  do?  Is  it  putting  that  ring  on  your 
finger  will  keep  you  from  getting  an  aged 
woman  and  losing  the  fine  face  you  have,  or 
be  easing  your  pains,  when  it's  the  grand  ladies 
do  be  married  in  silk  dresses,  with  rings  of 
gold,  that  do  pass  any  woman  with  their  share 
of  torment  in  the  hour  of  birth,  and  do  be 
paying  the  doctors  in  the  city  of  Dublin  a  great 
price  at  that  time,  the  like  of  what  you'd  pay 
for  a  good  ass  and  a  cart  ? 

[She  sits  down. 
SARAH  —  puzzled. —  Is  that  the  truth  T 
MARY  —  pleased  with  the  point  she  has 
made. —  Wouldn't  any  know  it's  the  truth? 
Ah,  it's  a  few  short  years  you  are  yet  in  the 
world,  Sarah  Casey,  and  it's  little  or  nothing 
at  all  maybe  you  know  about  it. 

SARAH  —  vehement  hut  uneasy. —  What 
is  it  yourself  knows  of  the  fine  ladies  when 
they  wouldn't  let  the  like  of  you  go  near  them 
at  all? 

MARY.  If  you  do  be  drinking  a  little  sup 
in  one  town  and  another  town,  it's  soon  you 


The  Tinker's  Wedding  41 

get  great  knowledge  and  a  great  sight  into 
the  world.  You'll  see  men  there,  and  women 
there,  sitting  up  on  the  ends  of  barrels  in  the 
dark  night,  and  they  making  great  talk  would 
soon  have  the  like  of  you,  Sarah  Casey,  as 
wise  as  a  March  hare. 

MICHAEL  —  to  Sarah.—  That's  the  truth 
she's  saying,  and  maybe  if  you've  sense  in  you 
at  all,  you'd  have  a  right  still  to  leave  your 
fooling,  and  not  be  wasting  our  gold. 

SARAH  —  decisively. —  H  it's  wise  or  fool 
I  am,  I've  made  a  good  bargain  and  I'll  stand 
to  it  now. 

MARY.     What  is  it  he's  making  you  give  ? 
MICHAEL.     The  ten  shillings  in  gold,  and 
the  tin  can  is  above  tied  in  the  sack. 

MARY  —  looking  at  the  bundle  with  sur- 
prise and  dread. —  The  bit  of  gold  and  the 
tin  can,  is  it? 

MICHAEL.  The  half  a  sovereign,  and  the 
gallon  can. 

MARY  —  scrambling  to  her  feet  quickly. — 
Well,  I  think  I'll  be  walking  off  the  road  to 
the  fair  the  way  you  won't  be  destroying  me 
going  too  fast  on  the  hills.  (She  goes  a  few 
steps  towards  the  left,  then  turns  and  speaks 
to  Sarah  very  persuasively. —  Let  you  not  take 
the  can  from  the  sack,  Sarah  Casey;  for  the 
people  is  coming  above  would  be  making  game 


42  The  Tinker's  Wedding 

of  you,  and  pointing  their  fingers  if  they  seen 
you  do  the  Hke  of  that.  Let  you  leave  it  safe 
in  the  bag,  I'm  saying,  Sarah  darhng.  It's 
that  way  will  be  best. 

[She  goes  towards  left,  and  pauses  for  a 
moment,  looking  about  her  with  em- 
barrassment. 
MICHAEL  —  in  a  low  voice. —  What  ails 

her  at  all? 

SARAH  —  anxiously. —  It's  real  wicked 
she  does  be  when  you  hear  her  speaking  as 
easy  as  that. 

MARY  —  to  herself. —  I'd  be  safer  in  the 
chapel,  I'm  thinking;  for  if  she  caught  me 
after  on  the  road,  maybe  she  would  kill  me 
then. 

[She  comes  hobbling  back  towards  the 
right. 

SARAH.  Where  is  it  you're  going?  It 
isn't  that  way  we'll  be  walking  to  the  fair. 

MARY.  I'm  going  up  into  the  chapel  to 
give  you  my  blessing  and  hear  the  priest 
saying  his  prayers.  It's  a  lonesome  road  is 
running  below  to  Greenane,  and  a  woman 
would  never  know  the  things  might  happen 
her  and  she  walking  single  in  a  lonesome  place. 
[As  she  reaches  the  chapel-gate,  the 
Priest  comes  to  it  in  his  surplice. 

PRIEST  —  crying  out. —  Come  along  now. 


The  Tinker's  Wedding  43 

It  is  the  whole  day  you'd  keep  me  here  saying 
my  prayers,  and  I  getting  my  death  with  not 
a  bit  in  my  stomach,  and  my  breakfast  in  ruins, 
and  the  Lord  Bishop  maybe  driving  on  the 
road  to-day? 

SARAH.     We're  coming  now,  holy  father. 
PRIEST.     Give  me  the  bit  of  gold  into  my 
hand. 

SARAH.     It's  here,  holy  father. 

[She  gives  it  to  him.    Michael  takes  the 

bundle  from   the   ditch   and   brings  it 

over,  standing  a  little   behind  Sarah. 

He  feels  the  bundle,  and  looks  at  Mary 

with  a  meaning  look. 

PRIEST  —  looking   at   the   gold. —  It's   a 

good  one,  I'm  thinking,  wherever  you  got  it. 

And  where  is  the  can? 

SARAH  —  taking  the  bundle. —  We  have 
it  here  in  a  bit  of  clean  sack,  your  reverence. 
We  tied  it  up  in  the  inside  of  that  to  keep  it 
from  rusting  in  the  dews  of  night,  and  let  you 
not  open  it  now  or  you'll  have  the  people 
making  game  of  us  and  telling  the  story  on 
us,  east  and  west  to  the  butt  of  the  hills. 

PRIEST  —  taking    the    bundle.  —  Give    it 

here  into  my  hand,  Sarah  Casey.     What  is  it 

any  person  would  think  of  a  tinker  making  a 

can.  [He  begins  opening  the  bundle. 

SARAH.     It's  a  fine  can,  your  reverence. 


44  The  Tinker's  Wedding 

for  if  it's  poor  simple  people  we  are,  it's  fine 
cans  we  can  make,  and  himself,  God  help  him, 
is  a  great  man  surely  at  the  trade. 

[Priest  opens  the  bundle;  the  three  empty 
bottles  fall  out. 

SARAH.     Glory  to  the  saints  of  joy! 

PRIEST.  Did  ever  any  man  see  the  like 
of  that?  To  think  you'd  be  putting  deceit 
on  me,  and  telling  lies  to  me,  and  I  going  to 
marry  you  for  a  little  sum  wouldn't  marry  a 
child. 

SARAH  —  crestfallen  and  astonished. — 
It's  the  divil  did  it,  your  reverence,  and  I 
wouldn't  tell  you  a  lie.  (Raising  her  hands.) 
May  the  Lord  Almighty  strike  me  dead  if  the 
divil  isn't  after  hooshing  the  tin  can  from  the 
bag. 

PRIEST  —  vehemently. —  Go  along  now, 
and  don't  be  swearing  your  lies.  Go  along 
now,  and  let  you  not  be  thinking  I'm  big  fool 
enough  to  believe  the  like  of  that,  when  it's 
after  selling  it  you  are  or  making  a  swap  for 
drink  of  it,  maybe,  in  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

MARY  —  in  a  peacemaking  voice,  putting 
her  hand  on  the  Priest's  left  arm. —  She 
wouldn't  do  the  like  of  that,  your  reverence, 
when  she  hasn't  a  decent  standing  drouth  on 
her  at  all ;  and  she's  setting  great  store  on  her 
marriage  the  way  you'd  have  a  right  to  be 


The  Tinker's  Wedding  45 

taking  her  easy,  and  not  minding  the  can. 
What  differ  would  an  empty  can  make  with 
a  fine,  rich,  hardy  man  the  hke  of  you? 

SARAH  —  imploringly. —  Marry  us,  your 
reverence,  for  the  ten  shilHngs  in  gold,  and 
we'll  make  you  a  grand  can  in  the  evening  — 
a  can  would  be  fit  to  carry  water  for  the  holy 
man  of  God.  Marry  us  now  and  I'll  be  saying 
fine  prayers  for  you,  morning  and  night,  if 
it'd  be  raining  itself,  and  it'd  be  in  two  black 
pools  I'd  be  setting  my  knees. 

PRIEST  —  loudly. —  It's  a  wicked,  thiev- 
ing, lying,  scheming  lot  you  are,  the  pack  of 
you.  Let  you  walk  off  now  and  take  every 
stinking  rag  you  have  there  from  the  ditch. 

MARY  —  putting  her  shawl  over  her  head. 
Marry  her,  your  reverence,  for  the  love  of 
God,  for  there'll  be  queer  doings  below  if  you 
send  her  off  the  like  of  that  and  she  swearing 
crazy  on  the  road. 

SARAH  —  angrily. —  It's  the  truth  she's 
saying;  for  it's  herself,  I'm  thinking,  is  after 
swapping  the  tin  can  for  a  pint,  the  time  she 
was  raging  mad  with  the  drouth,  and  our- 
selves above  walking  the  hill. 

MARY  —  crying  out  with  indignation. — 
Have  you  no  shame,  Sarah  Casey,  to  tell  lies 
unto  a  holy  man? 

SARAH  —  to  Mary,  working  herself  into 


4.6  The  Tinker's  Wedding 

a  rage. —  It's  making  game  of  me  you'd  be, 
and  putting  a  fool's  head  on  me  in  the  face 
of  the  world;  but  if  you  were  thinking  to  be 
mighty  cute  walking  off,  or  going  up  to  hide 
in  the  church,  I've  got  you  this  time,  and 
you'll  not  run  from  me  now. 

[She  seizes  up  one  of  the  bottles. 

MARY  —  hiding  behind  the  priest. —  Keep 
her  off,  your  reverence,  keep  her  off  for  the 
love  of  the  Almighty  God.  What  at  all  would 
the  Lord  Bishop  say  if  he  found  me  here 
lying  with  my  head  broken  across,  or  the  two 
of  yous  maybe  digging  a  bloody  grave  for 
me  at  the  door  of  the  church? 

PRIEST  —  waving  Sarah  off. —  Go  along, 
Sarah  Casey.  Would  you  be  doing  murder  at 
my  feet?  Go  along  from  me  now,  and  wasn't 
I  a  big  fool  to  have  to  do  with  you  when  it's 
nothing  but  distraction  and  torment  I  get 
from  the  kindness  of  my  heart? 

SARAH  —  shouting. —  I've  bet  a  power  of 
strong  lads  east  and  west  through  the  world, 
and  are  you  thinking  I'd  turn  back  from  a 
priest?  Leave  the  road  now,  or  maybe  I 
would  strike  yourself. 

PRIEST.  You  would  not,  Sarah  Casey. 
I've  no  fear  for  the  lot  of  you;  but  let  you 
walk  off,  I'm  saying,  and  not  be  coming  where 


The  Tinker's  Wedding  47 

youVe  no  business,  and  screeching  tumult  and 
murder  at  the  doorway  of  the  church. 

SARAH.  I'll  not  go  a  step  till  I  have  her 
head  broke,  or  till  I'm  wed  with  himself.  If 
you  want  to  get  shut  of  us,  let  you  marry  us 
now,  for  I'm  thinking  the  ten  shillings  in  gold 
is  a  good  price  for  the  like  of  you,  and  you 
near  burst  with  the  fat. 

PRIEST.  I  wouldn't  have  you  coming  in 
on  me  and  soiling  my  church;  for  there's 
nothing  at  all,  I'm  thinking,  would  keep  the 
like  of  you  from  hell.  (He  throws  down  the 
ten  shillings  on  the  ground.)  Gather  up  your 
gold  now,  and  begone  from  my  sight,  for  if 
ever  I  set  an  eye  on  you  again  you'll  hear  me 
telling  the  peelers  who  it  was  stole  the  black 
ass  belonging  to  Philly  O'Cullen,  and  whose 
hay  it  is  the  grey  ass  does  be  eating. 

SARAH.     You'd  do  that? 

PRIEST.     I  would,  surely. 

SARAH.  If  you  do,  you'll  be  getting  all 
the  tinkers  from  Wicklow  and  Wexford,  and 
the  County  Meath,  to  put  up  block  tin  in  the 
place  of  glass  to  shield  your  windows  where 
you  do  be  looking  out  and  blinking  at  the  girls. 
It's  hard  set  you'll  be  that  time,  I'm  telling 
you,  to  fill  the  depth  of  your  belly  the  long 
days  of  Lent;  for  we  wouldn't  leave  a  laying 
pullet  in  your  yard  at  all. 


48  The  Tinker's  Wedding 

PRIEST  —  losing  his  temper  finally. —  Go 
on,  now,  or  I'll  send  the  Lords  of  Justice  a 
dated  story  of  your  villainies  —  burning, 
stealing,  robbing,  raping  to  this  mortal  day. 
Go  on  now,  I'm  saying,  if  you'd  run  from 
Kilmainham  or  the  rope  itself. 

MICHAEL  —  taking  off  his  coat. —  Is  it 
run  from  the  like  of  you,  holy  father?  Go  up 
to  your  own  shanty,  or  I'll  beat  you  with  the 
ass's  reins  till  the  world  would  hear  you  roar- 
ing from  this  place  to  the  coast  of  Clare. 

PRIEST.  Is  it  lift  your  hand  upon  myself 
when  the  Lord  would  blight  your  members 
if  you'd  touch  me  now?     Go  on  from  this. 

[He  gives  him  a  shove. 

MICHAEL.     Blight   me    is   it?     Take   it 

then,  your  reverence,  and  God  help  you  so. 

[He  runs  at  him  zvith  the  reins. 

PRIEST  —  runs  up  to  ditch  crying  out. — 
There  are  the  peelers  passing  by  the  grace  of 
God hey,  below ! 

MARY  —  clapping  her  hand  over  his 
mouth. —  Knock  him  down  on  the  road ;  they 
didn't  hear  him  at  all. 

[Michael  pulls  him  down. 

SARAH.     Gag  his  jaws. 

MARY.     Stuff  the  sacking  in  his  teeth. 
[They  gag  him  with  the  sack  that  had 
the  can  in  it. 


The  Tinker's  Wedding  49 

SARAH.  Tie  the  bag  around  his  head, 
and  if  the  peelers  come,  we'll  put  him  head- 
first in  the  boghole  is  beyond  the  ditch. 

[TJiey  tie  him  up  in  some  sacking. 
MICHAEL  —  to  Mary. —  Keep  him  quiet, 
and  the  rags  tight  on  him  for  fear  he'd 
screech.  (He  goes  back  to  their  camp.) 
Hurry  with  the  things,  Sarah  Casey.  The 
peelers  aren't  coming  this  way,  and  maybe 
we'll  get  off  from  them  now. 

[They    bundle    the    things    together    in 

wild  haste,    the  priest  wriggling  and 

struggling  about  on  the  ground,  with 

old  Mary  trying  to  keep  him  quiet. 

MARY  —  patting    his    head. —  Be     quiet, 

your  reverence.      What   is   it   ails  you,   with 

your  wrigglings  now?     Is  it  choking  maybe? 

(She  puts  her  hand  under  the  sack,  and  feels 

his  mouth,  patting  him  on  the  back.)      It's 

only  letting  on  you  are,  holy  father,  for  your 

nose  is  blowing  back  and  forward  as  easy  as 

an  east  wind  on  an  April  day.     (In  a  soothing 

voice.)     There  now,  holy  father,  let  you  stay 

easy,  I'm  telling  you,  and  learn  a  little  sense 

and  patience,   the  way  you'll  not  be  so  airy 

again  going  to  rob  poor  sinners  of  their  scraps 

of  gold.     (He  gets  quieter.)     That's  a  good 

boy  you  are  now,  your  reverence,  and  let  you 

not  be  uneasy,   for  we  wouldn't  hurt  you  at 


50  The  Tinker's  Wedding 

all.  It's  sick  and  sorry  we  are  to  tease  you; 
but  what  did  you  want  meddling  with  the 
like  of  us,  when  it's  a  long  time  we  are  going 
our  own  ways  —  father  and  son,  and  his  son 
after  him,  or  mother  and  daughter,  and  her 
own  daughter  again  —  and  it's  little  need  we 
ever  had  of  going  up  into  a  church  and  swear- 
ing —  I'm  told  there's  swearing  with  it  —  a 
word  no  man  would  believe,  or  with  drawing 
rings  on  our  fingers,  would  be  cutting  our 
skins  maybe  when  we'd  be  taking  the  ass  from 
the  shafts,  and  pulling  the  straps  the  time 
they'd  be  slippy  with  going  around  beneath 
the  heavens  in  rains  falling. 

MICHAEL  —  who  has  finished  bundling 
up  the  things,  comes  over  to  Sarah. —  We're 
fixed  now;  and  I  have  a  mind  to  run  him  in 
a  boghole  the  way  he'll  not  be  tattling  to  the 
peelers  of  our  games  to-day. 

SARAH.  You'd  have  a  right  too,  I'm 
thinking. 

MARY  —  soothingly. —  Let  you  not  be 
rough  with  him,  Sarah  Casey,  and  he  after 
drinking  his  sup  of  porter  with  us  at  the  fall 
of  night.  Maybe  he'd  swear  a  mighty  oath 
he  wouldn't  harm  us,  and  then  we'd  safer 
loose  him;  for  if  we  went  to  drown  him, 
they'd  maybe  hang  the  batch  of  us,  man  and 
child  and  woman,  and  the  ass  itself. 


The  Tinker's  WieddiNg         •' '5^' 

MICHAEL.  What  would  he  care  for  an 
oath? 

MARY.  Don't  you  know  his  like  do  live 
in  terror  of  the  wrath  of  God?  (Putting  her 
mouth  to  the  Priest's  ear  in  the  sacking.) 
Would  you  swear  an  oath,  holy  father,  to 
leave  us  in  our  freedom,  and  not  talk  at  all? 
(Priest  nods  in  sacking.)  Didn't  I  tell  you? 
Look  at  the  poor  fellow  nodding  his  head  off 
in  the  bias  of  the  sacks.  Strip  them  off  from 
him,  and  he'll  be  easy  now. 

MICHAEL  —  as  if  speaking  to  a  horse. — 
Hold  up,  holy  father. 

[He  pulls  the  sacking  off,  and  shows  the 
priest  with  his  hair  on  end.  They  free 
his  mouth. 

MARY.     Hold  him  till  he  swears. 

PRIEST  —  in  a  faint  voice. —  I  swear 
surely.  If  you  let  me  go  in  peace,  I'll  not 
inform  against  you  or  say  a  thing  at  all,  and 
may  God  forgive  me  for  giving  heed  unto 
your  like  to-day. 

SARAH  —  puts  the  ring  on  his  finger. — 
There's  the  ring,  holy  father,  to  keep  you 
minding  of  your  oath  until  the  end  of  time; 
for  my  heart's  scalded  with  your  fooling;  and 
it'll  be  a  long  day  till  I  go  making  talk  of 
marriage  or  the  like  of  that. 

MARY  —  complacently,  standing  up  slozv- 


^^/T'c'    Tiii^  Tinker's  Wedding 

ly. —  She's  vexed  now,  your  reverence ;  and 
let  you  not  mind  her  at  all,  for  she's  right 
surely,  and  it's  little  need  we  ever  had  of  the 
like  of  you  to  get  us  our  bit  to  eat,  and  our 
bit  to  drink,  and  our  time  of  love  when  we 
were  young  men  and  women,  and  were  fine 
to  look  at. 

MICHAEL.     Hurry  on  now.    He's  a  great 
man  to  have  kept  us  from  fooling  our  gold; 
and  we'll  have  a  great  time  drinking  that  bit 
with  the  trampers  on  the  green  of  Clash. 
[They  gather  up  their  things.    The  priest 
stands  up. 
PRIEST  —  lifting     up     his     hand. —  I've 
sworn  not  to  call  the  hand  of  man  upon  your 
crimes  to-day;  but  I  haven't  sworn  I  wouldn't 
call  the  fire  of  heaven  from  the  hand  of  the 
Almighty  God. 

\_He  begins  saying  a  Latin  malediction  in 
a  loud  ecclesiastical  voice. 
MARY.     There's  an  old  villain. 
ALL  —  together. —  Run,     run.       Run    for 
your  lives. 

[They  rush  out,  leaving  the  Priest  master 
of  the  situation. 


CURTAIN 


\ 


S  B 


/-.      1        -  r- 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

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(E1602slO)476B 


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